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I circle him again, this time slower, letting the moment stretch.

When I come to rest in front of him, I say, “You survived because I allowed it. But more importantly, because you’re like me.”

He looks at me, sees it, and doesn’t flinch.

It’s a beautiful thing.

The game is simple now.

We are the only two players.

Chapter Eleven: Samuel

Amonth has passed since the Crown. Since I found the other half of my demon in Bentley.

Outside the window, snow piles up on the stone terrace, the flakes thick enough to hide the rest of the world. The storm has been crawling east since morning, and by now the glass is half-frosted, the only visible thing the vague shape of a dead tree and the distant glow from the estate’s security lamps.

I stand in front of the window, close enough to feel the chill bleeding through the glass. My toes press against the cold oak of the floor. The rest of me is exposed, fully, except for the mask.

The mask is from the ritual—the one the guards wore during my interrogation. Full face, nothing but a slit for the eyes and a thin seam for the mouth. It’s smooth, black, shiny enough to reflect just a glint of the desk lamp. I found it by accident, stuffed in a bin of supplies in the security closet next to the stairwell.

I put it on half an hour ago. I’ve been standing here ever since.

Bentley will be home soon. He always comes back to the study after his Ministry shift, for half an hour of what he calls “self-repair.” Sometimes he brings a glass of whiskey, but never more than one. Sometimes he reads the news off his phone, sometimes he just stares at the snow the way I do now, like he’s trying to predict what will be left standing when the thaw comes.

Tonight is different, and not just because I’m naked.

Tonight is the one-month anniversary of the night he broke me—no, the night he let me break him, just a little. The night my life changed.

I could have marked it by leaving. I could have taken the car, the cash, the weapons stashed in the pantry and vanished into the storm. Instead, I find myself standing here, waiting to be seen. To be judged.

I want him to see me like this.

Maybe it’s punishment. Maybe it’s a dare.

Maybe it’s just who I am now.

The clock over the fireplace ticks, old school, each click an accusation. I don’t flinch. The air in the room is so cold it makes my balls ache. I keep my arms loose at my sides, fists unclenched.

The front door opens somewhere downstairs, followed by the sharp click of leather soles on stone. Bentley doesn’t hurry, ever. His movements are measured, calibrated for effect. Even now, after four weeks, I can’t predict whether he’ll enter the room soft or hard.

Tonight, he takes the stairs slow.

He stops just inside the study, the sound of his breathing louder than the wind against the window. I keep my back to him, letting the tension drag out until it’s a razor wire between us.

Finally, he says, “That mask is Ministry property.” His voice is perfectly neutral, but the way it lingers on “property” is a warning. Or an invitation.

I grin.

He’s already stripped off his overcoat, but the suit underneath is black and perfect. There’s a fresh scar on his jaw, a thin line of red that splits the skin from cheekbone to chin. The only thing out of place.

He takes me in, head to toe. His gaze is invasive, and I love the intensity. It’s not lust, not even close—it’s an audit. When he sees the mask, he stops. His eyes go cold, the pupils pinning, but not shrinking.

I cross the room. Each step is deliberate, a challenge.

When I reach the desk, I lean both palms flat on the wood. “Thought we should celebrate,” I say. My voice comes out raw, muffled by the mask. “One month of not killing each other.”

His eyes never leave mine. Or what he thinks are mine.